Fan stories

= Short stories =

1 - A Glimpse of a Naive Past
The grass upon the field felt dry and pale, tearing upon the lightest touch. Its blades crumbled and were carried away across the undulating golden hills in the prevailing winds, joined by others who met the same fate. Yuliaet I willed for more of its comfort, despite what harm may come to it and myself.

It would be months until I would embrace it again as it became imprisoned under the winter snow, after all.

“I don’t get this one bit.” A yawn blew past, followed by the muffled closing of a book.

Embedded within the same grass sat a girl with flowing hair of crimson, clutching onto a hardcover title which had drawn on a praying feminine figure and embossed words I had yet to learn. She was no older than I—about eight or nine—but she possessed a stature which presented a more mature version of her than what I could hope to muster for myself.

I made no comment as she forfeited the elegant posture she had been mimicking and slouched lazily in my fashion. Her aquatic eyes seemed to cast disinterest at whatever she gazed upon—myself included.

“I don’t get you either,” she began. “Dragging us all the way out here to see nothing.”

I retorted, “I prefer being baked than rotting away at a desk. Plus, it’s nearly winter—you won’t be back until after then.”

The most I could ask after that was a returning pout. I sighed.

Behind the hill we resided upon was a sizable house which guarded the gates of the field. At this distance, the most one could make out were its characteristic spires that towered above each of the windows on the upper floor.

Normally, my father would have scold me for ‘wandering’ this far into the field—more so if alone—though my mother had promptly followed up with an exception:

''“They will be fine, dear. F1 will be with him too. On the other hand, there are some matters we must discuss ourselves.”''

Whatever matters they were, we were not obliged to know. The two of us had our own to worry about.

“Father is taking me and my mother down south for it to pass,” I heard F1 mutter to stubborn blades of grass. “He said the longer, the better.”

There were many things to pass, much more than the winter itself. What specifically, I wished to know—there were only so many winters left—but I felt asking would break the little solace we sought by walking here.

Far over the field, the estate, and the rural country laid a centre of turmoil. At the heart of Snezhnaya, the capital city was littered with riots and brawls between the two major belligerents: the palace’s guards and the local militia. There would be days on end of civil infighting until either side crumpled in defeat via attrition, the opposition gaining ground before advancing to relive the hell again.

If our families had not removed ourselves, the fighting could have very well encroached into the eastern district, where the majority of aristocratic households were.

I cast my eyes back to the foreground, particularly the bordering row of pine which had shed anew in the fall.

How many visits has F1 and her family made since then? How many more after the winter?

The greater field would perish, but the soil below would ensure its return the following year. To that, at the very least, I naively held onto. F1, though more pragmatic, probably did too.

A heavy assortment of storm clouds engulfed the sinking late sun and smothered the remaining hues of red. The warmth of the air did not linger and the field grew cold in its departure.

F1 raised herself up and roughly brushed off the loose bits of grass that clung.

“This place is nice and all, but I still prefer the comfort of your living room more.”

I smiled as her back turned. “We’ll come back like we always do anyway.”

The two of us headed back to the gate of the field without mentioning it again.

= Elaborate stories (Novella) =